


Watson

by glacis



Category: Relic Hunter
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigel discovers Bruce.  Set in and around the episode "Afterlife and Death" including spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watson

**Watson**, a Relic Hunter story by Glacis (Nigel/Bruce Adler). Set in and around the episode "Afterlife and Death" including spoilers. Rated NC17. No copyright infringement intended.

 

There were days when he wondered why he'd left Cambridge. Days when he redefined terror, thanked God he was a good sprinter, and wondered when the roller coaster would jump the tracks in a spectacular crash, destroying all of them.

He rather enjoyed the feeling.

This wasn't one of those days. Yes, the Thutmose Diamond was a huge find. Yes, he admired Sydney's utter fearlessness in supporting her friends when they were in trouble, her fierce loyalty, her take-charge attitude. There were many reasons he instinctively moved behind her when trouble started, not simply because she was a much better fighter than he would ever dream of being. She was a tigress, a lioness defending her cub, a shining sword cutting through the obscuring miasma of time past and lies told to rescue the truth.

There were also times when Syd was depressingly like his Mum. This was one of _those_ days.

Nigel Bailey stared around him at the dusty, depressing, dingy and damned hot streets of Cairo and wondered, not for the first time, when his safe little dream of studying at the feet of a master had warped into a never-ending Indiana Jones film. With him as the donkey. He was tired, sweaty, and completely at sea about what they might possibly be able to do to assist Sydney's friend Bruce. Her passionate defense of his innocence in stealing the diamond aside, the man was in serious trouble. What he needed was a solid team of solicitors, not a rogue relic hunter playing Holmes along with her too-often clueless Watson.

They ducked into a beaten-up doorway, matching in all particulars its surroundings, and he followed as Sydney marched up to her friend and exchanged enthusiastic greetings and manly hugs. Nigel swiped sweat out of his eyes, tucked useless sunglasses into the neck of his overly-hot sweater, and held out his hand.

"You must be Nigel."

A shock ran from his fingers to his shoulders and numbed his tongue. It was the only reason he could think that he was unable to do more than mumble a greeting. Bruce Adler was very soft-spoken, taller than he by a good six inches, golden-haired and golden-eyed. He looked every inch what he was -- an Egyptologist who lived in the field, wresting history from oblivion and protecting it with every fiber of his being.

Brilliant.

A lion.

To match the lioness.

Ignoring for a moment the bizarre physical response he'd felt when they touched, Nigel forced himself to tune into the conversation. His eyes shot back and forth between Syd and Bruce. There was something there, a chemistry, a camaraderie. It was familiar, but with unusual overtones. Unlike Dallas, or Kurt, Francois or even Stewie, he didn't get the impression Bruce wanted to drag Sydney into the back room and make up for lost time ... or be dragged by Sydney, a much more probable scenario. In fact, Bruce was making as much eye contact with Nigel himself as he was with Sydney, if not more. It was unexpected and more than a little unnerving. He dropped comments into the conversation absently, concentrating more on what was left unspoken than what was being said.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sydney, who was giving him The Look. He gulped. Not having any idea what she was mentally ordering him to do, he barked instinctively, "No!" Whatever it was, he wouldn't like it.

Then she told him he had nice legs, and he knew precisely what she wanted.

"No!" The blush was crawling from his ankles, it felt like, and Bruce was staring at him, the tiniest grin tilting the corner of his mouth. Nigel stared with some desperation between the two of him. Don't embarrass me like this, Sydney, not now, not here, not in front of him. Please.

She couldn't read his mind any better than he could read hers. An hour later he was sitting in a steaming bath, shaving foam everywhere (including the end of his nose), slicing his lower limbs to filets at Sydney's command.

He hated dressing like a girl.

Not as much as he should, probably, but it wasn't the first time he'd gotten himself turned out as a femme fatale to support one of Sydney's crazy schemes, or to save his life as they were fleeing madmen who were out for their blood. At least this time all he had to do was risk permanent damage to his spine by carting a bloody heavy basket on his head, trip down stone steps in his bare feet, simper engagingly for one of the dimmest specimens of Egyptian coppers he could ever hope to meet, and not kick the bugger in the face for groping his calf.

It was a sheer relief to slap the bastard in the chops with the basket full of vegetables. For once, Sydney had his complete and enthusiastic cooperation in beating up the bad guys.

Stepping over the crumpled bodies of their foes in officialdom, he and Sydney moved toward the lower catacombs and into the inner tomb. Bruce was right beside them, responding to Sydney's whistle to come out of hiding once the coast was clear. Nigel hitched up his skirts, scratched absently at the veil tucked under his chin, and peered with great interest at the tomb art engraved into the wall.

Looked like Thutmose III had had great press. Glowing rock in hand, he was slaying people right, left and sideways. Sydney and Bruce got into a discussion about properties of space rocks and Nigel chimed in with a few comments about the mythology of fallen Kings and the lack of credibility of meteorites as laser weapons, but he was continually distracted by Bruce.

The other archaeologist was standing so close to him they kept brushing against one another. Whenever they did, that odd little tingle of electricity would run through his skin and make his spine tingle. He'd never felt anything like it. Perhaps it was something in the man's natural electromagnetic field that was interacting with his own in an unusually strong way. Nigel wondered idly if Bruce glitched computers, then moved even closer to the taller man's warmth.

Whatever it was, he rather liked it. From the way Bruce moved closer to him in turn, perhaps it was reciprocal?

Sydney's exclamation distracted him, and they moved forward to stare down at the footprints in the dust. Sydney and Bruce batted about ideas for the identity of the thief who'd caused Bruce to be framed for the theft of the diamond, starting the whole adventure, then Nigel noticed Sydney was staring at him critically.

"What?" he asked defensively. Was his wig askew? Kohl smeared around his eyes? What?

"Next time, I'd definitely go with a size six."

Oh, great. Fashion critique. Only Sydney would come up with that in the middle of ... whatever on earth they were in the middle of this time.

A few hours later, it was clear what they had embarked upon. A diamond hunt. With complications, of course, because any hunt involving Sydney Fox inevitably included complications. This time they included an Egyptian fence who'd flitted, a Korean terrorist with a very large attendant thug with an even bigger gun, and a sudden trip to Amsterdam. Nigel was glad to be away from Ko, not quite sure how they expected to get to Mustafa, and a tad overwhelmed by the red light district.

Especially when he realized he was practically in Bruce's back pocket as they were walking down the street. So he hurriedly attempted to pull away unobtrusively, landing him with an armful of Karla, who was anything but unobtrusive. He tried telling her no. After all, even if he hadn't been distracted by a mission and a diamond and Bruce's EMF interaction with his own, they _were_ on a public street, even if it was Amsterdam, and he was certain some of the things she was whispering in his overheated ear were illegal, even _in_ Amsterdam.

Sydney walked on, not noticing. Nigel stared after her helplessly. Bruce put his hand through Sydney's arm. The day suddenly seemed not quite so bright, and Karla's insidious whispers became merely embarrassing. The girl also had arms like an octopus, and bizarre ideas of what a properly-brought-up Englishman might like to do in his private moments. It was with immense relief that he saw Sydney and Bruce turn and come back to them.

"I tried no, Sydney. She didn't listen."

Sydney grinned at him. Bruce looked like he was trying not to laugh. Nigel _knew_ he was bright red. Then Sydney honed in on Karla, and offered a business proposition, and Nigel found out how they were going to get into Mustafa's hotel room.

Twenty minutes later he and Bruce were ensconced in the lobby of Mustafa's hotel, waiting for their cue. Nigel hunched behind his newspaper, feeling like a cross between Inspector Clouseau and Doctor Watson, waiting in the hackney with his service revolver for the brilliant Holmes to spell out the next step for him. Sydney stalked in like a panther, all legs and bosom and brilliant smile. She had a few words with the concierge, gave him an envelope, then turned toward them, heading for Mustafa's room.

She was incredible. She could get blood from a turnip. The Dutchman stood no chance.

Nigel watched for her hand signal and read 3-0-3. He glanced over at Bruce. Bruce was watching him.

For a second, the intensity of Bruce's regard startled Nigel. He'd been sure Bruce would be staring at Sydney. Who wouldn't? While she usually dressed with extreme practicality, when she tarted up she was stunning. But Bruce hadn't seemed to notice. Perhaps he was too professional? After all, they were on a mission, and he had known Sydney for years ... a light rap on his right knee from Bruce himself broke his distraction. That bloody tingle again! From his knee directly to his groin. Nigel swallowed and clutched the newspaper to his middle.

He was beginning to get an idea why Bruce kept making his skin itch. He wasn't particularly sanguine about his conclusions.

Nigel stood a discreet foot away from Bruce in the lift going up, helped in his endeavor to maintain his composure by the presence of two elderly matrons standing in front of them. He was congratulating himself on keeping his calm demeanor, given his just-discovered erotic attraction to Sydney's old _male_ friend, when the door opened on the third floor.

Sydney, looking a perfect sample of Amsterdam streetwalker, stood impatiently at the door. "C'mon!" she exhorted them. "I want to get this over with before anyone else shows up!"

He didn't dare risk a glance at Bruce. True, his erection had finally subsided, but his blush was deep enough to be used as a beacon light. Trust Sydney. She didn't even notice.

As it turned out, they were too late anyway. Ko was already there, with his thug. The room had been tossed. Mustafa had flown the coop. Sydney was furious. Bruce was looking harried. Nigel was at wit's end.

Not an unusual circumstance on one of Sydney's adventures, but the cause for this mental flurry was a little different. He'd been pursued before -- a man named Lagerfeld had nearly caught him in New York, but he'd managed to wriggle out of it, even when Claudia so helpfully set up a date with the art dealer once Nigel had thought himself safely back home -- but he'd never been in a position where he'd wanted to do the pursuing. At least not since he was a boy. Puberty in English public schools could be a chancy proposition. But he was a man now. And he was ... extremely confused.

Putting aside petty personal considerations, aware that time was running short to find the diamond, Nigel stuck to Sydney's side like glue as the intrepid trio tromped down to one of Bruce's friends to try to find out more about the diamond itself. If nothing else, at least they could figure out why Ko was so determined to find it that he'd offered Sydney a five hundred million dollar finder's fee. Nigel privately thought it was some Arab sheik somewhere with champagne tastes and an oil well budget. Bruce and Sydney seemed determined that there was something fishy about the diamond that made it extraordinary.

As had been the norm ever since he crossed the pond and started working for Sydney, she was right and he was wrong. Bruce's buddy Dale put a fragment of the crystal Syd had found at the tomb under a microscope and shone a laser into it to illuminate the unusual structure.

The crystal fragment let loose with a burst of energy that sent all four of them to the floor and blew a hole in the wall of the lab twice the size of a man's head.

Alright. So it wasn't a diamond. It was a tactical laser weapon. Who knew? Well, other than Sydney, of course. There were times when her uncanny resemblance to Sherlock Holmes (other than the fact that she was a beautiful woman living in America in the twenty first century who solved historical puzzles instead of being a Victorian gentleman living in London who solved crimes) was a tad irritating.

Slightly shell-shocked, they wandered out onto the street, trying to figure out what to do next. It had now become imperative that the stolen diamond be retrieved, sent back to Egypt under careful guard, and studied by experts, before Ko or others of his ilk obtained it and turned it into a military commodity, causing the deaths of thousands of people.

As if the thought itself had conjured him up, Ko accosted them on the street from the window of his luxury sedan. Nigel sighed, dropped back to let Sydney handle it, and unobtrusively sidled up next to Bruce again.

His attraction to the man was secondary to the mission, but it was also undeniably there. He'd take what he could get and hope no one noticed. He was doing his best not to notice it himself.

When Sydney turned from her snarling exchange with Ko, she started miming mosquitoes at him. Nigel looked at Bruce. Bruce looked back at him blankly. Sydney grabbed him by the shoulders and nearly yanked his head off, whispering in his ear that they were bugged. Nigel reeled back. Sydney whirled and hailed a taxi, herding them toward it and into the back seat. On the way, Nigel managed to convey to Bruce that they were bugged.

Bruce looked bemused.

Nigel could relate.

Once in the taxi, Sydney used her usual charm and threatened to break the driver's femur if he didn't get out of the taxi. The man moved with alacrity, then she ordered them to strip to find the bug, without actually saying the word 'bug,' of course. Neither Nigel nor Bruce hesitated, both being well accustomed to asking 'how high?' on the way up when Sydney said 'jump.'

Nigel couldn't take his clothes off without bumping into Bruce. It was a small back seat. They were wearing a lot of clothes. They were in a hurry. They were just doing what they were told.

It was utterly illicit heaven.

The hair on the back of his neck and along his arms was standing up. Their skin kept brushing, forearms, shoulders, the sides of their hips rubbing together. Goose pimples ran across his flesh and his nipples peaked. Thanking God yet again for handy cover, he dumped his clothing into his lap to cover the fact that he was hard as a rock. It was ridiculous. It was incredible. Bruce was so _warm_.

Nigel's eyes slid sideways, and he trembled for an instant before he could stop himself. Bruce was glancing sideways as well. He looked as though he liked what he saw. Then Bruce's eyes met his for a moment before sliding away, startled. Nigel swallowed heavily and concentrated firmly on searching every thread in the sleeve of his sweater. Not here. Not now. Not ... what? Whatever it was that was happening. To both of them, it appeared. He wasn't putting a lot of faith in it, though. Bruce looked almost as confused as Nigel felt.

Sydney gave a small cry of satisfaction and he started. She grinned at them over the seat and triumphantly held up a small green object. Ah. The bug. Of course. The reason he was currently sitting naked in the back seat of a taxi in the middle of the red light district in Amsterdam with his left hip practically in the naked lap of a man he was finding disturbingly attractive.

Damn. Sydney could be so blasted _efficient_, sometimes.

He started to slump back, but misjudged his position on the seat and ended up leaning part-way against Bruce, his shoulder tucked under Bruce's shoulder, his left hand on Bruce's thigh. He jumped sideways and nearly knocked the door open. He risked a glance at Bruce.

Bruce was staring at him, an arrested look on his face.

"C'mon, let's hurry it up!"

Syd's voice rapping out orders was, not for the first time, a lifesaver. Nigel flashed an extremely nervous smile at Bruce and concentrated on putting his clothes back on. It was a minor miracle he could button his trousers.

Back on the street, he was twitchy, adrenaline making him antsy but unsure which way to jump. Sydney had a satisfied, happy, hunting expression on her face, compounded by the force of her personality as she once more gave him The Look. His protesting "No!" was automatic and, as always, completely futile.

The following interview was one of the most humiliating experiences he'd so far encountered in a litany of humiliating experiences as Sydney Fox's Teaching Assistant. Even dressing as a girl to seduce police guards was better than attempting to portray a man of the world to a Dutch concierge who had seen it all ... and then some. Bruce would have been much better at it. But Bruce might be recognized. Sydney was already known to the superior Mr. Boote as a prossie, so she couldn't do it. That left Nigel, in his guise as a good friend of Omar Mustafa, attempting an insouciance he'd never have, to pump the concierge for information on Mustafa's whereabouts.

Mr. Mustafa had said Mr. Boote could help him out with finding some ... company. Mr. Mustafa had said Mr. Boote could recommend someplace to go that he might like. Mr. Mustafa had said that Mr. Boote could help him with his little problem.

_What_ problem?

He was completely lost by the time Mr. Boote asked him what his preferences were. Not having a clue what the man was talking about -- Preferences? A good book on Assyrian social structure and a nice cup of tea, not a loud and tacky disco in the middle of the diamond district! -- he attempted to brazen it out.

"Er, a little of this, a little of that. You know." Nigel certainly didn't. He attempted a world-weary expression.

Mr. Boote stared at him forever, before giving him a half-smile and a near-wink. "Of course. You're English."

Nigel smiled at him for a moment in an agreeable fashion, why yes, he was English ... then the smile disappeared and he gave him a puzzled look. What did being English have to do with dance clubs? He didn't have time to ponder it as Mr. Boote told him the name of a club. Nigel smiled again, more a nervous tic than a true smile, and got up to leave.

"Ask for Costanza," the concierge suggested. "She can help you with your problem."

The tic appeared again, and Nigel escaped. Why did everyone assume he had some sort of problem? The only problem he had was figuring out what to do about the way seeing Bruce naked made him react. And he didn't have time to deal with that. They had a lethal diamond laser ray rock to find.

As he told Sydney and Bruce what he'd found out and they hailed yet another taxi, Nigel wondered when his life had become a comic book. And why he hadn't noticed until it was much too late.

By the time they got to Plastic Plastique he was beginning to feel put upon. Sydney was mothering him again, Bruce was teasing him by sitting too close then pulling too far away, and Nigel was so far over his head he felt like he was going under for the third time. He was used to feeling like a gerbil whose wheel was outrunning him, but enough was enough. He was a man, not a gerbil, and it was about time he started acting like one. Control his fate, instead of letting his fate control him. Exert some autonomy.

Chin firm as his intentions, he looked around the nightclub and thought of himself as a mature man perfectly capable of handling whatever came his way. As long as Bruce stayed over by Sydney. A lovely petite blonde in a silver dress was singing about, not surprisingly, diamonds, and he smiled his appreciation.

Immediately, Sydney tried to caution him. He snapped back that she was being over-protective, and she shrugged and walked away. Bruce patted him gently on the arm as he passed, and the blasted tingle made Nigel even more charming to the singer than he would otherwise be. He smiled sweetly and complimented her on her singing, then she came extremely close, touching his jacket, and his smile flickered nervously. He assured her he was only interested in her voice, and she told him not to flatter himself.

Rather, **he** told him not to flatter himself.

Nigel's world spun again as the petite blonde, who'd turned out to be a petite blond with a well-disguised five o'clock shadow and a baritone speaking voice to go with the lilting soprano singing voice, asked him where he'd gotten his sweater. He managed to blurt out "Banana Republic" before slinking away as quickly as possible to rejoin Sydney and Bruce.

Thankfully, she didn't say a word. Too busy trying not to laugh aloud, probably. Bruce did kindly ask if he was okay and he babbled, "Yes, fine, thank you very much," before Bruce spotted Mustafa, and the hunt was back on.

Nigel had seldom been so thankful for a distraction in his life.

They cornered the weaselly thief and found out they were, once again, behind the curve. He'd sold it already, and it was going to be cut the very next day. Visions of a hole the size of a football stadium where the diamond district used to be dancing in his head, Nigel was unprepared for a sultry voice whispering in his ear.

The blond was back. He (she?) handed a small folded piece of paper to Nigel and told him to call Costanza. What was it about this Costanza that made everyone think she would be perfect for Nigel? Was she even a she? By now, Nigel wasn't counting on anything. Then a groping swat to his hindquarters knocked a startled gasp out of him, and he glanced wildly over his shoulder to see the singer winking at him.

The outside air had never felt so fresh.

Time compressed, as events built to a climax. Sydney called in a favor, and Nigel found himself in a borrowed suit with gel in his hair bollixing up his role as an Earl's son, while Sydney ran up and down stairs, broke and entered offices, knocked down security guards, interrupted the cutting of the crystal an instant before the laser could hit it and turn them all into people-kibble buried in rubble, then beat up Ko, faced down half the world's diamond-buying elite, and stomped off to return the relic to the Egyptian embassy. It was quite a night, the climax of quite an adventure.

It also wasn't over.

The next day there were the usual formalities with the Egyptian governmental officials and the Amsterdam police. Nigel hid quietly in the background while Sydney and Bruce handled it. Then the two wandered off for a last drink before Sydney and he returned to the United States and Bruce went back to Egypt. Tired, frustrated, terminally aroused and determined not to think about it, Nigel went back to his hotel room, buried his head under a pillow and tried to get some rest.

A firm rap on the door made him groan. "I'm asleep, Sydney. This is me, talking in my sleep. We don't fly out for another eight hours and I intend to sleep through the lot."

There was silence, then a voice that wasn't Sydney's answered. "It's Bruce. If you're talking in your sleep, can I come in and talk too?"

Nigel was across the floor with the door open before he even realized all he was wearing were his pyjama pants. He could feel the blush rising from his waistband, but he couldn't seem to shut the door. Bruce grinned down at him. Whatever bemusement the man might have been feeling before had apparently been resolved. He stepped forward, forcing Nigel to step back a foot, then uncurled Nigel's fingers from the door knob and shut the door firmly.

Once, Nigel'd been fairly proud of his ability to express himself verbally. Right then, he couldn't have formed a word if he'd tried. His thoughts were so scattered, and at the same time so concentrated on one particular subject, that he didn't even try. Mercifully, he didn't have to, because Bruce was as focused on the topic as Nigel was.

"Tell me to stop if you want me to stop," Bruce said softly, voice low and serious as always. Nigel opened his mouth to ask him what he expected Nigel to stop.

Bruce stepped forward, gathered him up in a close embrace, and covered Nigel's mouth with his own. So much for talking.

Not that Nigel would have said no, even if he had been able to speak. Or think. This had been building since the first time he'd seen Bruce in that disreputable bar and Bruce had perked up at the suggestion that Nigel had nice legs. The electricity that was jumping between them made the harnessed power of the laser meteor diamond look pitiful by comparison. Nigel would have cheered like a boy at a football match if he hadn't had his mouth, and his hands, full.

This was so much better at twenty four than it had been at fourteen.

For one thing, Bruce obviously knew what he was doing. There was an explanation for the lack of pulsing desire Nigel usually picked up between Sydney and her 'old friends' when they met up on a mission. It was the same explanation that covered why Bruce should be touching him every chance he got. It didn't quite cover why Nigel was so enthusiastic about the whole thing, but that would require thought, and right at the moment Nigel was too busy acting to worry about thinking.

Bruce broke contact and they both drew in ragged gulps of air. Nigel realized that sometime during the kiss Bruce had managed to move them to the edge of his bed. He'd also managed to get both hands down the back of the waistband of Nigel's pants and was cupping Nigel's arse like it was the crown jewels of the Pharaoh. Bruce looked intently down at him. Nigel nearly swooned, except then he would have missed what came next, and the only way he was going to miss that was if he was dead.

"Do you want this? Want me?" Serious brown eyes bore into his. Nigel nodded so hard his neck hurt. "Tell me what you want." That low voice had gotten smoky and dark. Nigel managed to stop nodding and tried his best to shrug.

"You." It was the best he could manage. Bruce's expression grew fierce. Nigel shivered, in a good way.

"Can you be more specific?" Bruce's voice was getting strained. Nigel considered this a positive sign, since nearly every part of himself was getting strained.

"No," he answered with blunt honesty.

Bruce growled.

Then Nigel found himself lifted and dumped, carefully, flat on his back in the middle of the bed. The hands that had been cradling his arse stripped down with swift force, and he was stark naked under Bruce's hands, his eyes, his mouth. Nigel's hands flailed about wildly before settling into the thick short strands of golden hair at the back of Bruce's skull. Then a demanding, starving mouth closed over his prick and the world went nova.

He really had to work on his stamina. Not that Bruce seemed to be complaining. But Nigel had a mission, now, once his bones gelled back into place and his muscles unpuddled. Bruce was wearing clothing. Much too much clothing. Nigel'd seen all that skin, those muscles, the freckles on that broad chest, and now he wanted to touch everything he'd seen. As soon as his arms worked again.

With all the strength he could summon, which wasn't much, he tugged at the hair clenched in his hands. "Strip," he tried to ask. It came out more a command. Again, Bruce didn't seem to mind. He slowly untangled himself from Nigel, giving his softened prick a little kiss that sent one of those electrical jolts through him and reassured Nigel that all was not yet over. Then Bruce stood up, very close to the bed, his eyes locked with Nigel's.

He stripped. Efficiently. A little bashfully. It was the sexiest thing Nigel had ever seen. By the time the workmanlike floor show was over and Bruce stood, fully erect, staring down at him, Nigel was hard again. There were times when it paid to be a young man with very few opportunities for expending masculine energy. It left a lot in reserves for the once in a lifetime chances that did fall in his lap.

Going on instinct, Nigel rolled closer to the edge of the bed and, taking a deep breath, took the head of Bruce's prick in his mouth. Being American, it was circumcised, not something Bruce had encountered in his limited experience at fellatio. It was a little strange, being already stripped for action, as it were, but after a few licks and a tentative suck, he decided he liked it. The little jolts were constant now, making his tongue tingle, prickling his fingertips, causing his toes to curl. Every time Bruce's prick twitched in his mouth, his own twitched in sympathy. As he relaxed into his exploration, his hand moved of its own volition and began to rub at his sensitive erection.

Bruce drew back, and Nigel followed, mouth open like a baby bird's, a disappointed noise escaping him. "Hang on," Bruce whispered, then pushed Nigel back to climb on the bed with him. The disappointed whimper turned anticipatory.

Shifting him with nudges from hands and hips, Bruce turned Nigel until Nigel was laying supine beneath him. Being covered wasn't something with which Nigel was at all familiar, but it ratcheted the heat up between them until it was almost unbearable. All that warm skin and hard muscle everywhere he turned, rubbing against him with every move he made. His mouth was open, and he was whimpering again. Bruce took it as an invitation, and as his hands did incredible things to Nigel's body, his mouth did incredible things to Nigel's mouth.

It couldn't last forever, of course, although by the time Nigel climaxed the second time he was certain he was going to go mad with the wait for it. Things went hazy, and the world swung around him as he was turned yet again, lying prone this time with his face buried in the linens. The hands that had been exploring his hind quarters were replaced with something larger and more determined. He was so relaxed from two mind-shattering orgasms in quick succession that the initial pain of entry was much less than he might have expected. Having not really had any expectations, this didn't surprise him.

What did surprise him was the valiant attempt his prick made at a third erection as Bruce fucked him. The tiny thought hit him that he actually _was_ being fucked, and not only enjoying it, but vocally begging for more, before the few brain cells still functioning gave up any attempt at analysis and drowned in pleasure. His half-hard, leaking prick rubbed against the rumpled bedcover, his fingers kneaded the sheets frantically, and his hips, with a mind all their own, bucked up against Bruce with shocking energy considering the rest of his body was liquefied. A random synapse fired, informing him that _that_ was what a prostate massage felt like, then Bruce was growling in his ear and humping up against him, and the last teaspoonful of fluid in his testicles spurted valiantly onto the bedcover.

He was wet all over, completely drained, more exhausted than he had ever been, had twelve stone of semiconscious man draped over his back, and felt ridiculously happy. The grin on his face was making his cheeks ache. Life as Sydney's assistant could be strange, frightening, thrilling and wonderful. This counted under three out of four.

Maybe even all four.

Still trying to figure out which adjectives applied, and if he'd ever walk straight again, and if he should care, Nigel finally fell asleep.

Leave-taking the next day was an odd affair. When he'd woken, Bruce had been gone, but he'd left a note. It was short, to the point, and hopeful. It included his email address, work and home telephone numbers, and a mail drop where he could be reached regardless of where his fieldwork took him. It ended with the words 'Thank you.' Nigel stared at it until he was almost late packing to catch the flight home.

On the plane, Sydney had looked askance at him several times, but she hadn't asked. Nigel looked at his reflection in the window, painted over the clouds, and knew why.

He was still grinning.

A week later in his email he received a personal invitation from Dr. Bruce Adler to fly out along with Sydney for a symposium on the Thutmose Diamond. When he handed the airplane tickets to Sydney, she grinned back at him.

There were days when he wondered why he'd left Cambridge. On days like this, he knew. Being Watson to Sydney's Holmes meant adventure, excitement -- great possibilities.

He rather enjoyed the feeling.

_fin_

 


End file.
